Almost every morning, Lily and Eddie met Shirley and her younger brother on the corner of Grant and Washington to walk to school. Along the way, they’d pick up Hanson and Will in front of Dupont Market, and then Flora and Linda Soo a block north, and by the time they reached Broadway there would be a whole gang of them, proceeding up Columbus Avenue through North Beach in a kind of Chinatown parade. The younger kids would split off at Francisco Street to go east to the junior high, and the older ones would head west up and over Russian Hill to Galileo High School.
Lily liked walking to school with her friends, but she secretly enjoyed walking home alone even more. She could take the quieter side streets with narrower sidewalks, and she could linger over a pretty view if she wanted. Today she climbed the Chestnut Street steps up Russian Hill, and at the top she turned around to catch her breath while looking out toward the Presidio. She’d always thought there was something magical about the city, with its steep stairways and sudden glimpses of the bay between tall, narrow buildings. It felt expansive and full of promise, each half-hidden opening a reminder that the city she had been born in still held mysteries to discover.
She continued up Larkin and down Lombard until she was absorbed by the tourists who were always loitering on the crookedest part, taking snapshots of Coit Tower perched on Telegraph Hill in the distance. The view reminded her of the Telegraph Club ad, and she thought about it all the way down Columbus until she reached the stoplight at Broadway.
The club must be on that block to her left. She couldn’t see it, but if she crossed the intersection and walked a little way down, she might pass it. The thought made her heartbeat quicken, and she almost turned in its direction, but then she caught sight of Thrifty Drug Store down the street, past Vesuvio Café on Columbus. She checked her watch; she had a little time before Frankie got out of Chinese school. When the light turned green, she hurried across the intersection.
The first time Lily had gone to Thrifty had been sometime last year. She had ducked in to buy a box of Kotex, because she hadn’t wanted to get them at the pharmacy in Chinatown, where she’d risk running into people she knew. Thrifty was just outside the neighborhood, so her friends didn’t usually go there. She had soon discovered that Thrifty had another advantage over the Chinatown pharmacy: it had a very good selection of paperback novels. There were several rotating racks of them in a sheltered alcove beyond the sanitary napkin aisle. One was full of thrillers with lurid covers depicting scantily clad women in the embrace of swarthy men. Lily normally bypassed that rack but today she paused, drawn in by The Castle of Blood, on which the blonde’s red gown seemed about to slip off her substantial bosom, nipples straining against the thin fabric.
The book rack alcove was normally deserted, but even so, Lily spun the rack selfconsciously, retreating behind it so that she was hidden from view. The women on these book covers seemed to have a lot of trouble keeping their clothes on. The men loomed behind them or clutched them in muscular arms, bending the women’s bodies backward so that their breasts pointed up.
There was something disturbing about the illustrations—and it wasn’t the leering men. It was the women’s pliant bodies, their bare legs and lush breasts, mouths like shiny red candies. One of the books had two women on the cover, a blonde and a brunette. The blonde wore a pink negligee and knelt on the ground, eyes cast down demurely while the shapely brunette lurked behind her. The title was Strange Season, and the tagline read, “She couldn’t escape the unnatural desires of her heart.”
An electric thrill went through Lily. She glanced around the edge of the book rack, sharply conscious that she was still in public, but although she could hear the ringing of the cash register at the front of the store, she didn’t see anyone approaching her corner. She went back to the book, opening it carefully so that she didn’t crease the spine, and began to read. The book was about two women in New York City: a young and inexperienced blonde, Patrice; and an older brunette, Maxine. When Patrice was jilted by her boyfriend in public, Maxine took pity on her and helped her get home. Thus began their somewhat confusing relationship, which veered from Maxine setting up Patrice with new men, to strangely suggestive conversations between the two women.
About halfway through the book, things took a turn. Patrice arrived unexpectedly at Maxine’s Fifth Avenue penthouse, distraught after a bad date, and Maxine began to comfort her.
“Why do I want to kiss you?” Patrice whispered as Maxine stroked her long blond hair.
Maxine’s fingers jerked, but then she resumed the rhythmic petting. “I don’t know, Patty, why do you?”
Patrice twisted around on the couch, rising to her knees. “Max, I’d rather be here with you than on any date!”
Lily turned the page, her heart racing, and she could barely believe what she read next.
Maxine pushed Patrice back against the velvet cushions, lowering her mouth to the girl’s creamy skin. “You’re like me, Patrice. Stop fighting the possibility.” Patrice whimpered as Maxine pressed her lips to her neck.
“Max, what are you doing?” Patrice gasped. “This is shameful.”
“You know what I’m doing,” Maxine whispered. She unbuttoned Patrice’s blouse and slid the fabric over Patrice’s shoulder, stroking her breasts. Patrice let out a sigh of pure pleasure.
“Kiss me now,” Patrice whispered.
Maxine obeyed, and the sensation of Patrice’s mouth against hers was a delight far beyond shame.